The Bound Queen
by The Technician
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© Copyright 2015 - The Technician - Used by permission
Storycodes: MF; M/f; semi-historical; celtic; fantasy; dreams; sex; anal; first; bdsm; spank; bond; outdoors; ritual; flogging; transform; toys; climax; cons; X
Ghoul-gle jpn

WARNING! All of my writing is intended for adults over the age of 18 ONLY. Stories may contain strong or even extreme sexual content. All people and events depicted are fictional and any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental. Actions, situations, and responses are fictional ONLY and should not be attempted in real life. If you are under the age or 18 or do not understand the difference between fantasy and reality or if you reside in any state, province, nation, or tribal territory that prohibits the reading of acts depicted in these stories, please stop reading immediately and move to somewhere that exists in the twenty-first century. Archiving and reposting of this story is permitted, but only if acknowledgment of copyright and statement of limitation of use is included with the article. This story is copyright (c) 2014 by The Technician ( [email protected]. ) Individual readers may archive and/or print single copies of this story for personal, non-commercial use. Production of multiple copies of this story on paper, disk, or other fixed format is expressly forbidden.

The Bound Queen The Technician MF; M/f; semi-historical; celtic; fantasy; dreams; sex; anal; first; bdsm; spank; bond; outdoors; ritual; flogging; transform; toys; climax; cons; X

An Irish-American Lass Proves She is a Descendant of Royalty

Each year as I write my Halloween stories, I depend upon the pixies to bring me inspiration for one with an Irish/Celtic theme. This year they led me to the myths and legends surrounding the last of the great Celtic queens. Some of this story is factual. Some is Celtic/Irish legend. And some is created just for this story. I leave it to you to determine which is which.

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I was in Ireland in mid-October because I’m an Italian-American author whose book, “Tracing My Italian Bloodline” sold enough copies to put me into that very select club of people who could actually make a living from what they wrote.

“Then shouldn’t you be in Italy?” you are probably asking. And the answer to that is, “I was.”

For over a decade, I spent a bunch of my own money and several years of my vacation time in Italy tracing my family bloodline as far back as I could. Actually, I already had some pretty complete records. The oral tradition of my family– backed up with some old journals– traced things all the way back to around 775 AUC. That’s “ab urbe condita” which means “from the founding of the city.” The city, of course, is Rome. In our modern system of dating that is somewhere around 20 AD/CE.

The family story claimed that I was a lineal descendant of the famous Gaius Suetonius.  Once I started investigating it, the details of that oral tradition corresponded amazingly well to actual extant records including origins of modern family names and all of that.

The only problem, or in my case, perhaps I should say the great blessing, was that the family oral tradition disagreed as to which famous Gaius Suetonius it was from whom I was descended. One branch of the story claimed Gaius Suetonius Tranquillus, who was a historian that wrote a bunch of books about the life and times of the Roman Empire in the first century– including one that is still around that chronicles the life of Julius Caesar.

The other Gaius Suetonius wasn’t quite so tranquil. Gaius Suetonius Paulinus was a bad-ass Roman general who is primarily known for being a bloodthirsty son of a bitch and for ruthlessly putting down the last of the great Celtic rebellions against Roman rule in the British Isles.

To my amazement, and to my eventual publishers’ great joy, it turned out that both sides were apparently right. These two guys weren’t at all related to each other, but I was related to both of them. That plot twist was evidently really great stuff to the genealogy crowd and my book sold a gazillion copies.

OK, not quite a gazillion, but enough to crack into the bottom of the best selling non-fiction lists and enough to give me a very precious “take this job and shove it” moment with an asshole of a boss I once worked for.

The problem now was that my publisher wanted a sequel– a sequel that would appeal to the same audience. A sequel might not be too difficult for a fiction writer, but I had sort of exhausted my family tree in the first book. Luckily, my wife wasn’t Mediterranean-Irish, she was Irish-Irish with the flaming red hair, blue eyes, and temper to prove it.

So as the wet and cold fall weather of the Emerald Isle became wetter and colder, Katie and I were traipsing all over central Ireland attempting to track down her bloodline. The big problem was that she did not have a strong oral tradition backed up with parish records giving her family tree. The only ancestral story in her family was that they were Celtic royalty and if the Celts ever rose again, she could claim the throne as a rightful queen. I soon learned that this same story was the basic stock and trade of almost every family in Ireland.

To quote my publisher, “Don’t put too much stock in stories like that. Everyone says they came over on the Mayflower but neglect to tell you that Mayflower was the name of a broken down cattle boat hauling refugees from the extreme poverty of Europe in the late 1800's.”

So far, we had traced parish records back to the mid-1700's and were still dealing mostly with ordinary Irish farmers and peasants. It was slow, tedious work that often involved a lot of begging and pleading just to be able to look at the ancient records.

I wasn’t complaining about being on the oulde sod, though. The Irish countryside seemed to be having a marvelous effect on Katie. She was bubbling and happy and energetic, and perhaps most surprising, as horny as a nymphomaniac on Spanish fly.

The longer we stayed in Ireland, the more wanton she became and the more wild our nightly– with occasional morning and afternoon– sex became. I wasn’t quite to the point of seeking out a source for some little blue pills, but I was starting to wonder how long I could keep this up without medical assistance.

Then it happened.

We were in a quaint little bed and breakfast, taking advantage of the fact that everyone was eating breakfast in the dining area at the other end of the house when, just as I was reaching orgasm, Katie changed. I don’t mean that her face got all red– which it normally did as she approached orgasm, or that her eyes rolled back slightly– which they normally did, or that she began to quiver and shake so hard that she almost threw me off the bed– which she only did when she was going really, really high. She physically changed!

Her hair got darker– more like a red-bronze than her normal carrot top. Her skin got paler– if that was possible. And her eyes became a much more intense blue. Then she said in a heavily accented voice, “Dark Night is coming soon. That is when it will happen. Make sure that you are at Dersingham Heath on Dark Night and be sure that you are making love at midnight when the veil is thinnest.”

Once or twice in my life, I’ve had things happen that caused me to “deflate” when I wanted my little soldier at full attention, but I’d never before lost an erection in the middle of ejaculating. I ended up against the wall at the end of the bed, standing on my knees between Katie’s legs. She was back to normal and was looking at me really weirdly.

“What’s wrong?” she asked in a slightly frightened voice, and I explained what I had just seen and heard.

I expected her to freak out, but instead she went all travel guide on me. “You know she was referring to Halloween, don’t you?” she asked. And then without waiting for an answer she continued, “Halloween is really a Celtic festival, but you Italians screwed it all up when you took it back to Italy and combined it with a harvest festival. For some reason, the church ended up using your wrong Italian date.”

She crossed her arms over her naked breasts and said, “True Dark Night is the dark of the moon following the fall equinox.” She paused to think for a moment and said, “This year that is a week from Monday, nine days from now. ”

“Doesn’t it bother you that you changed into someone else while I was making love to you?” I stammered out.

“Oh, that,” she answered calmly. “It runs in my family.”

Evidently she could see the shock– and fear– on my face because she added rather petulantly, “Don’t worry. It only happens in the weeks leading up to Halloween, and it doesn’t happen to everyone in my family.”

“But it happened to YOU!” I sputtered.

“Yeah,” she answered. “I guess that means I’m the chosen one in this generation.”

She then went on to explain that in every generation in her family, there was one daughter who seemed to occasionally transform while making love in the weeks leading up to Halloween. “Actually, it gets more intense as Dark Night approaches,” she explained. “But it’s always gone by the time your mis-dated, modern Halloween actually arrives.”

“That’s nice to know,” I replied. “Perhaps you could have even mentioned it to me sometime while we were dating.”

She gave me a very dark look and continued in her travel guide voice for a moment, “This year Halloween will be almost three weeks after Dark Night.”

She then looked slightly embarrassed and looked at her feet for a moment before continuing. “I was starting to sort of suspect I was chosen when I started getting hornier and hornier as we got closer and closer to Dark Night.”

She shrugged her shoulders and said, rather matter-of-factly, “That’s another part of whatever happens. It hasn’t happened to any of my cousins, so we didn’t know who the chosen one was in my generation. I guess it’s me.”

She smiled, then looked at me very intently and asked, “What exactly did I– she– say?”

I answered, “She said to be sure that we were at Dersingham Heath on Dark Night and to be sure that we were making love at midnight when the veil was the thinnest.”

“Well then,” she replied, “you know where we will be and what we will be doing a week from Monday night”

I searched all over my map of Ireland for Dersingham Heath and couldn’t find it. Finally I gave up and Googled it. Dersingham Heath isn’t in Ireland. It’s way the hell over on the other side of England in Norfolk.

“Looks like you’ve got some non-Celt in your background.” I said jokingly.

Katie flushed with anger and replied rather heatedly, “That is the heart of the last, great Celtic rebellion. I can understand you not knowing Celtic history, but don’t you know anything at all about your own ancestors in the British Isles?”

“What do you mean?” I answered, getting a little huffy myself. “My ancestors aren’t Celt.”

Her eyes widened as she drew herself up to her full five-foot seven. “No,” she almost yelled, “your ancestors are who they rebelled against! Queen Boudica led the Celts in one last, great war against the Roman invaders. Her armies were eventually defeated, but not before she had wiped out several Roman cities, including Londinium, and killed 80,000 Romans. When it all fell apart, she and her two daughters were either killed in battle or took poison to prevent being captured alive.”

She then got rather quiet and said, “Your ancestor, Gaius Suetonius Paulinus, was the general who finally defeated her. He was also responsible for her being publicly flogged and her daughters being publicly raped right after her father died.”

She shrugged her shoulders again and added, “I guess that is sort of what caused her to go all Celtic revenge on the Romans, but no one has ever been able to figure out how she got away in the first place to raise her armies.”

“Oh,” I replied. “Sorry about that.”

“I don’t hold it against you,” she replied with a smile. “It’s not like he was your dad or grandfather... or even great-grandfather.

“Besides,” she continued, her voice getting weirdly soft, “we seem to have been interrupted in the middle of something.”

She pulled me back to the bed and dragged me in with her. I won’t say that it was my best performance as a lover, but how would you react if every minute you were making love, you were waiting for your partner to turn into somebody else.


We stopped twice overnight on our way over to Dersingham Heath. I wanted to check some of the parish and civil records along the way to see if any of Katie’s family names popped up. They didn’t.

Katie did, however, get even more horny as we got closer to Dersingham. And each time we made love, she transformed. Each time it happened, it wasn’t quite as shocking as the first time. It is amazing how fast you can get used to something even that weird. Whoever this phantom person was, the last three times she appeared, she gave me three messages.

The first said, “She must be willing... and she must be prepared for what will occur.”

The second said, “She is blood of my blood and will take my place on Dark Night.”

The third message said, “You are blood of my enemy but will be my savior.”

When I told Katie the third message, her eyes snapped wide open. “My God!” she yelled out. “It’s Boudica, herself. I actually am a descendant of Queen Boudica.”


We rented a rather picturesque country cottage a little east of King’s Lynn on the edge of the Dersingham Bog National Nature Reserve. A little conversation with some of the locals gave us the information that there was one area of the heath that everyone avoided in the weeks leading up to Halloween.

The local legend was that you could hear screaming and moaning coming from the trees on the western edge of the heath during that time and that women who were brave– or stupid– enough to spend the night on the heath experienced something that nearly drove them out of their minds. None of them could remember exactly what occurred, but they definitely knew that they never wanted to experience it again. Men who were with the women and stayed the night had no memory at all of what might have occurred, but all had the strong feeling that they had engaged in sexual activity of some sort.

Once we were settled into the cottage, Katie became even more insistent concerning sex. And she started getting kinky.

In all the years of our relationship, we had never done anything but standard missionary position sex. Once or twice she had given me head, and we had tried some other positions once or twice, but the “back door” as she called it was strictly off limits. Now she was telling me, “I want it in the ass.”

When I asked her if she was sure and why the change, she answered, “I have to be ready. I have to know that I can take it.”

“What the hell does that mean?” I asked, hoping to keep the anger out of my voice.

“You will know on Dark Night,” was her only response.

I don’t know when or where she had purchased lube, but she had some in her suitcase and handed it to me before going over to the bed and getting on all fours. She wiggled her ass at me and asked, “Are you coming?”

“Not yet,” I answered with a laugh, “but I soon will be.”

For an anal virgin, she responded very intensely to my gentle preparations. I planned to take my time and get her highly aroused first so that she would be ready, but that wasn’t really necessary. She was groaning and panting heavily as soon as I touched her ass. I worked one finger into her rosebud and she immediately started pushing back against me. By the time I had progressed up to three fingers to make sure that she was loose enough, she was writhing and bucking against me.

I positioned myself between her legs and lined myself up between the mounds of her ass. I intended to enter her slowly and carefully, but as soon as the tip of my prick touched her ass, she impaled herself on me and started slamming back against me. I was a little afraid of what the neighbors might be thinking as she started into a high-pitched keening wail, but there was little I could do about it. I had also planned to pace things so that I would last longer, but with her sphincter pulsing and squeezing around my prick as she bounced against me, again there was little I could do about it.

Finally, she lowered herself down onto the bed, pulling me with her. I lay more or less on her back slowly stroking her fiery hair. Finally she said, “You can move now.”

Then, as I was shifting myself over to be alongside her on the bed she murmured, “Maybe we will have to try that again when this is all over and it’s just me. I think I could get to like it.”

There are times when your mouth wants to ask something but doesn’t because there is a voice screaming at you from the very back of your mind, “You really don’t want to know.” I didn’t ask what she meant by “just me.”

Thursday night, she ratcheted things up another notch and asked me to spank her. I had playfully whapped her ass a couple of times during foreplay, but she always objected. Now she was telling me to hit harder and to use a hairbrush. Again I asked, “Are you sure about this?”

Her answer, once again, was “I have to be ready.” Then she added, “I have to know that I can take it.”

I was about to tell her that I couldn’t do it, but she suddenly got her Irish up. “You WILL do it,” she said firmly. “Your ancestor started this and it is up to you to stop it.” She paused and then added, “Besides, she said that this is the only way.”

I don’t know if a light bulb appeared over my head, but I am sure that there was suddenly a very loud “Click!” inside my head. “She’s talking directly to you now, isn’t she?” I asked. Actually it was more of a statement than a question.

She looked down slightly like she normally did when she was a little embarrassed. “She comes to me in my dreams,” she said. “I think she is kind of inside me now. She told me that her priest had betrayed her when her father died. He threw in with the Romans and not only removed the protection that had been cast over her family while her father ruled, he cast a terrible spell on her so that she couldn’t escape from them. There was another spell that was even more terrible. She wouldn’t tell me what it was, but she said that you and I were the only ones who could break the spell so she could get her revenge.”

“And breaking the spell involves beating you and screwing you in the ass?” I asked.

She scrunched up her face and raised her eyebrows. Then with a shrug of her shoulders she said, “Yes, it does.”

She threw herself over my lap and ordered, “So get spanking. And after I’m good and red, take me in the ass.”

She looked up at me before I started and said, “Then, turn me over and make regular love to me. Take me high... take me very, very high.”

I did everything she requested. She screamed and yelped as I slammed the long wooden hairbrush into her ass, but she never told me to stop. Then, when her asscheeks were starting to turn purple, I said, “That should do it,” and she stumbled up from my lap and knelt at the end of the bed with her body lying over the mattress.

Surprisingly, she became very aroused when I entered her and even had a small orgasm when I climaxed into her ass. We lay there for a few minutes with me still pressed against her from behind. I slowly shrank down and my limp penis eventually fell from her backside.

She turned and pulled herself up onto the bed and pulled me up with her. “Now,” she said, “take me higher than I have ever gone before in my life.”

She smiled slightly and added, “She said it would help take away the pain.”

I spent a lot of time stroking her body as I tried to take her as high as I could. Her skin got all red. Her eyes rolled back. And she began to quiver and shake so hard that she almost threw me off the bed. Then Queen Boudica showed up. “You will have to do even more to me on Dark Night,” she said seriously. “And your precious Katie will have to endure much more as she takes my place.”

She then described the exact point where Katie and I were to be on Dark Night. It was the same place the locals claimed was haunted by evil spirits. She also described exactly how Katie was to be bound between two of the trees. I was to give her 100 lashes with a rope whip and take her both in front and from behind. “Make sure that you spurt in her ass exactly at midnight,” was her final order as she faded away and Katie reappeared.

Friday, Saturday, and Sunday, Katie was her normal self, meaning that she was no longer insatiable. In fact, she had no desire for sex at all. Monday evening, just before dark, we parked in one of the lesser-used parking lots for the reserve. I left a note in the window that said, “Would not start. Tow will pick up in the morning,” and we began walking across the fields toward the edge of the heath.

Twilight was past by the time we reached the proper place. Katie stripped out of the heavy dress that was her only clothing and stood between the trees which the Queen had designated. Her nipples stiffened almost immediately in the cool, night air.

As I approached her with the ropes, she slipped something up over her legs. She had been holding it in her hand since we left the car and I thought at first it was perhaps a thong of some sort, but she explained, “It’s a butterfly vibrator. I’ve got it pulled up above my clit right now, but after you take me from the front, pull it into place so it will keep me excited through the rest of it.”

She looked at me a little sheepishly and said, “The Queen was right. Being totally turned on does really help with the pain.”

I desperately wanted to know where she had gotten the vibrator, but instead I asked, “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“No,” she said in a slightly quivering voice, “but we have to do it.”

I gave her a deep kiss and then pulled the ropes taut so that she was held in a tight X between the trees. I admit that I have read a few– OK more than a few– bondage fantasies, and they make it sound so simple to fuck a woman who is tied standing up, but it is actually a lot of work. You can’t lift her up and she can’t really move, so you end up having to half-way crouch down just to enter her. Then your legs are bent at an odd angle and you can’t get the proper muscle action to thrust. Maybe if she were suspended slightly higher in the air, or if I were a lot shorter it would have been easier.

The tension on her limbs did, however, greatly increase the sensations for both of us as I thrust in and out. Soon she was moaning and crying out, but still, because of the awkward position, I couldn’t seem to get to the right spot for either of us to finish. Finally, she started trembling and shaking in orgasm and I spurted within her.

Suddenly Queen Boudica was hanging before me. I hate to admit it, but it no longer surprised or shocked me at all. I had evidently gotten so used to Katie changing that I was now jaded to the whole experience. What did startle me, however, was the fact that she was totally naked. That meant that the butterfly had somehow gone with Katie to wherever it was that she had gone.

“The lash,” the Queen cried out. “Use the lash. One hundred strokes.”

As I started striking her, she grunted in pain and then said, “You have to hurry. This must end at midnight.”

I sped up my lashing and through clenched teeth she asked, “Do you know why this must be done?”

“Not a clue,” I replied.

“My priests betrayed me,” she explained. “When I told them I would get revenge if it took a thousand years, the chief priest replied ‘Then the punishment will have to last two thousand years.’ He cast a spell over me that would trap me in that day of flogging and rape for that entire time.”

She screamed slightly when the knotted ropes of the lash accidently slipped between her legs. Then she forced out the words, “But blood calls to blood across time. I reached out magically to all my descendants, seeking an escape. I found I could reach them in that instant of nothingness just before an orgasm... and at Dark Night.” Another shriek as a wayward cord found a nipple. “Finally I found you and Katie. Not only was she my descendant, you are a descendant of that bastard Suetonius.

“As you flog me and rape me tonight,” she continued, “it is the same as if he was doing it. And since it has been more than the two thousand years, the spell will be broken. I will be released. Then I will be able to use my own magic to escape so I can lead my people against the Romans and get my revenge.”

“But you will lose,” I said softly. “I have read the histories, you will lose.”

She laughed and said, “If you have read of me in the histories, then I have not truly lost... and many Romans will die before they destroy me.”

The count I had been keeping silently in my head finally reached one hundred. It was nearly midnight, and I stepped behind her to complete the strange ritual. Unfortunately– or perhaps fortunately– flogging a naked woman with a knotted whip of ropes doesn’t come close to turning me on. I was less that ready.

“Push against me,” she said desperately and I pressed my almost limp member against her ass. She began clenching her muscles and gripping me between her asscheeks. My little soldier responded immediately to that and stood at attention.

Her sweat, and perhaps some oil that was on her skin, was sufficient for lubrication and I entered her. She thrust back against me almost violently, making soft “uh” noises with each thrust. Soon I was thrusting against her as forcefully, or more so, than she was against me.

I’m not sure how we managed it, but just as the clock from a distant town square struck the midnight hour, she screamed out in orgasm and I erupted within her. There was a soft flash of light and she was gone. Katie was in her place. Her back was bleeding and she was crying in pain.

I pulled out of her and said, “It’s over, baby. It’s over.”

She replied, “Let’s go home.”

I untied her, leaving the ropes hanging from the trees. ‘Let the locals wonder’ I thought. ‘Maybe it will even add to their legends of the heath.’

We staggered back across the heath. Katie did not put her dress back on, but instead carried it draped across her arm.

Dark Night was truly dark. If it had not been for the small pocket flashlight I had with me, we would never have been able to follow the path back to the car. Luckily, it was still there. I was afraid the local constabulary might have discovered it and had it towed away. Maybe even they don’t venture into this area on Dark Night.

We drove back to the cottage in silence. Once there, I applied salve to her back and put her into bed. I offered to sleep on the couch, but she said, “No, hold me.” Then she added quietly, “very gently.”

The next morning her back was much better. It was bruised and sore, but the cuts were already starting to heal. “There are two things I still don’t understand,” I said to her over breakfast.

“Only two things?” she replied with a laugh.

“Boudica said that the spell bound her for two thousand years,” I continued. “But that all happened around the year 60. That means it hasn’t quite been two thousand years since then. How did we break the spell?”

“The spell must have been tied to the Celtic calendar,” she replied. “It has only 354 days and had to be corrected regularly with an extra month. Two thousand of those years would be many years shorter than our calendar. So, when you flogged her and raped her last night, two thousand Celtic years had passed. It completed the spell and she was released.”

“There is a second thing,” I added. “The history books say that her two daughters were killed along with her. They were virgins until the Roman soldiers broke their maidenheads so that they could legally be publicly punished and possibly executed.” I looked up at Katie and asked, “How can you be a descendant?”

“She told me there was a third daughter,” Katie replied. “She had been sent to live with the Iverni tribe– Boudica’s mother’s family– in southwest Ireland. I think if we go to that area, we can finally trace my ancestors.”


It took several more months, but we were able to trace– or guess– Katie’s complete lineage through the Iverni Celts. It wasn’t one hundred percent complete, but it was at least enough to write my sequel. It sold OK, but wasn’t quite the hit that my first book had been. It did create quite a bit of a controversy, however, because of the cover image, and that gave it a very needed sales boost.

While we were combing through libraries and ancient records in Ireland, we happened across a painting that was entitled, “The Flogging of Queen Boudica.” It was in a storeroom in some little village library and had been there for centuries. The head librarian said that it was older than the building– which was over twelve hundred years old.

“For all I know,” he said with a laugh, “it could have even been here in the village since Roman times. But it’s not really good art. And there’s no way to verify the dating. It’s probably just someone’s crude attempt to imitate some old Roman mural, so it just stays here in the storeroom.”

I was able to purchase the painting and bring it back with us to America. It shows the naked queen bound between two trees while a Roman officer of some sort flogs her with a whip made of knotted rope.

The painting is surprisingly realistic for a Roman era painting, but it’s not really a very good likeness of the Queen. The hair is way too orange. The wide open eyes are not quite an intense enough blue. And the skin is slightly darker than the Queen’s alabaster tone.

None of that is what caused the controversy, though. The intense argument, which swirled across the net almost as soon as the book came out, centered around exactly what object the artist had inserted into his painting to hide Boudica’s sex as she hangs naked between the posts.

Various people argued vehemently for this or that Celtic emblem or other powerful ancient symbol. Katie and I, however, know exactly what it is. If you look very closely at the image– especially the original painting that hangs in our den– you will see that it is actually a bright, pink, plastic butterfly.

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Wayne Mitchell “The Technician”

[email protected]

See my published books at

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